


isn't that just peachy

by feralphoenix



Series: the away game [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Autistic Frisk, Explicit Sexual Content, Intersex Frisk, Nonverbal Frisk, Other, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Frisk wears a very cheeky pair of tights under their suit just to get Asriel's goat. It works.





	isn't that just peachy

**Author's Note:**

> _(I’m amazed that I survived_ – I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the [marrow](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/130532912094/).)
> 
> just a heads up that the Kinke Contente (tm) of this fic involves light dom/sub undertones and gags/muzzling, in case that's not something you'd want to see!

You weren’t watching when Frisk got dressed this morning, or you might not be caught so off guard now.

Well, to give yourself credit—you had a late night reviewing documents yesterday, and so you were groggy and inattentive when you first woke up. Work kept you and Frisk from enjoying any quality time in your embassy suite, and so you at least didn’t have to shower, but you did need to groom yourself to be presentable and then change into your robes, and then Frisk was dragging you out the door so that you wouldn’t be late for the official brunch. By the time you’d had three cups of tea and were reasonably awake, you were sitting side by side with them at the table, and concentrating on today’s UN itinerary and on missing Chara.

This week of meetings is about things that don’t directly affect your people, but do affect global policies and therefore the ever-shifting balance of power between different countries. It’s getting to a point where you and Frisk can even—sometimes—venture your opinions on things without affronting half the humans present. You owe your parents a _lot_ for helping you and Frisk get a proverbial foot in the door, but a lot still hangs on your ability and your partner’s to be very very charming and very very attentive.

Frisk’s patience still spools out a lot longer than yours will, though, and you’ve been spacing out for minutes when they call for the two-hour break. You turn towards them idly while statespeople from all over the world shift in their seats or stand: Frisk stretches once in their chair, leaning back, an informal gesture that looks like they ought to be wearing something soft and silly instead of a suit.

Today’s suit is the houndstooth one with a pattern so small and fine that it looks gray from a distance, and the dark brass buttons with anchors on them; Frisk has paired it with a tie the color of red wine with white paisley patterns on it. They like to push the human dress code with ties that are _almost_ too cute or silly for a setting this formal but not quite.

Frisk gets up and stretches again. The houndstooth suit is one with a skirt—they alternate between skirts and slacks pretty aggressively, especially when humans call them the wrong thing—and under the skirt they’ve got on pristine white tights.

Their feet rise up out of their shoes—plain shiny dark brown, they’ve got a proper name but you don’t wear shoes and so you know basically nothing about them—and you see, unmistakably, the shape of a green leaf on the underside of Frisk’s left foot.

You suck your breath in sharply. Frisk is smiling down at you from the corner of their eye; this display is very much purposeful. They are very, _very_ actively out to rile you up.

It’s working. Boy howdy, it is working in a big way. Heat’s rushing into your face, and you thank your lucky stars for about the billionth time in your life that your blush is hidden by your fur. You _also_ thank your lucky stars that you thought to put on boxers underneath your robes today, because as your cock fills with blood it pushes open the slit of your sheath, wet and slow and eager; _that_ sensation is doing absolutely the opposite of helping you calm down. Without your underwear keeping your dick close to your body it’d be propping up the skirts of your robes in just a matter of minutes, you bet, and probably staining them with precome besides.

Frisk’s smile grows on their face, beatific and sweet. _We have two hours’ worth of break time,_ they remind you. _Why don’t we go stretch our legs for a while?_

You want to say _You’re evil_ in awed tones, but there’s still plenty of people around here, so you just smile back and nod. “That sounds great.”

They take you by the hand and lead you out of the room—which is plenty fine with you because you’ve got your hands full already with not tripping over your feet and keeping walking at all. Frisk’s hand is a lot smaller than yours is but it’s strong, and so warm that you feel like it ought to sear your palm, melt your fur right off. Their pulse is quick at their wrist. They planned this—they must’ve been looking forward to this all _day._ Your cock slides further out of your sheath, wet skin dragging like silk down the shaft, and you think you moan a little out loud.

Frisk squeezes your hand, and you have to bite your tongue to avoid moaning again even _louder._ Your cock’s pinned uncomfortably tight up against your stomach now, matting your fur flat in some places and pushing it against the grain in others; you want to just hike your skirts up and pull your boxers down for the sheer relief of it—to pin Frisk up against the wall and fuck them right here. Only the knowledge that it would be _really really bad for PR_ if you had sex right outside a UN conference room keeps your self-control triumphing over the force of your lust.

Frisk stops abruptly and you nearly trip and fall flat on your front: While all you were paying attention to was your boner, they led you to the main elevators. There are security personnel here to whom you have to show your IDs, never _mind_ that as the only monster in attendance you should be plenty recognizable.

Security’s stationed in front of every staircase and elevator, they block all the back exits to the embassy building, and a big chunk of the lobby is taken up by the agents and police who do the main security checks necessary for anyone to get into the building at all. As a monster these checks would’ve been useless against you, since you don’t need human weapons to cause damage, but when your parents were still in charge of things they established monster personnel here too: They seal your ability to produce any bullets but green ones when you enter, and only break the seals when you leave.

(You’re working on a way to break and recreate the seal yourself, just in case something horrible happens and you have to defend Frisk and yourself and your coworkers, but that’s something you haven’t even told Frisk yet. The fewer people there are who know, the better.)

Logic pings through the fug of horniness, first dimly and then a growing source of discontent, but you keep quiet about it until you’re admitted to the elevator and Frisk has pressed a button. Only once the doors are closed and you’re moving do you voice your doubts.

“Frisk, the security check takes ages. How are we gonna go all the way to our hotel and get back in time?”

They look at you, eyes briefly all the way open in surprise. Then the corners of their mouth crinkle upwards, and they raise their eyebrows at you.

_Who said we were even leaving the building?_

You swallow hard. Your cock thumps impatiently even through the prickly discomfort of your damp fur against the vulnerable skin. “Holy crap, Frisk. Uhh, please tell me this doesn’t mean bathroom stalls.”

They stick their tongue out. _That’s uncomfortable and probably not too sanitary? And also the hall security cameras would totally catch us both going in at the same time. Let’s go have our strategy meeting—_ they wink here— _in one of the empty boardrooms. There’s plenty of floors they aren’t using. And that might even give us time to go back down to the brunch floor and get real food._

They clearly and distinctly just said _might._ You swallow hard a second time.

The elevator doors open on… golly, what floor even is this, the fifteenth? There’s still security here waiting to check your IDs, but when you flash them and Frisk tells the guards out loud that you’re just going to take a walk through the halls and empty rooms, they nod and wave you through. You cannot believe the sheer _bullshit_ they’re spewing; they’ve thought of absolutely everything.

Thinking of absolutely everything unfortunately means that they _do_ insist on taking a walk through the halls, though, even though your nuts are threatening to detonate right now and leave a huge incriminating stain all down your front. Worse, Frisk sashays their hips just _slightly_ more than absolutely necessary while they lead you hand in hand through the halls. It’s minute enough that someone watching the security footage probably won’t be able to tell what they’re doing?? But you know _exactly_ what they have on under the skirt of their suit, and that makes their teasing COMPLETELY UNBEARABLE.

They lead you into one of the empty boardrooms and pad around a bit, and your heart’s in your throat from anticipation but they just take you by the wrist again and lead you right back out. It is childish to feel so cheated, you know, but Frisk wants to fuck you every bit as badly as you want to fuck them, and it feels so unreasonably unfair being told to _wait._

Either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring your sullenness, Frisk leads you into a second boardroom and a third, dismissing them both wordlessly. On the fourth you do a cursory look-around for cameras your own self. Of course there are none, not in the boardrooms; cameras to record in here could too easily mean state secrets being leaked before they’re supposed to be divulged. You don’t understand why Frisk is so particular.

You tell them this, actually. “Why are you being so _picky?”_ you whine under your breath. “It’s not like these are even the ones with the walls made of giant windows!”

Frisk themself is tapping a finger to their pursed lips, not giving you the time of day. Then they brighten and run over to a sliding door in the wall; they crack it open and then beckon you to their side.

 _I was looking for one with a whole walk-in closet,_ they finally explain, gesturing. You duck your head a little and glance around, impressed despite yourself. _If someone else decided to visit this boardroom for some reason, we don’t want them to open the door and see us just fucking in the middle of the room. This way we’d have a chance to be quiet and hide, and also it won’t be too cramped for you to move around in._

You are wowed. Frisk always overthinks absolutely everything, but it usually just stresses them out; it’s been a while since their obsessive planning was an asset to anything other than politics.

“Gosh,” you say out loud. “This is a—real good plan, Frisk.”

They giggle and gesture to the big closet as if to say _after you._ So you gulp a little and bow your head further so you won’t smack your horns on the doorframe, and step inside.

Walk-in closets are a little bit magic, you’re pretty sure. Your mom’s house had one each for her room, the guest room, and the bedroom you shared with Frisk and Chara; your dad had one for your room at his house too. Your dad’s was the one you and Frisk played dress-up in as kids, and the guest room at your mom’s house was where in your teen years you hid your stash of romance novels with the steamy love scenes, and also where you read them.

(Frisk had some three or four different hoards for _their_ porn, and seemed to move them often, because the few times you stumbled onto some it’d always be gone by the time you came back a few days later having gotten up the courage to take a peek. If Chara had physical stashes you never found them, but looking back on it you think you could hazard a good guess as to why they refused to let anyone else touch their phone.)

But anyway it was one of your favorite sort of—of liminal spaces, growing up. The dim light, the safe sense of enclosure, the deliciousness of secrecy. Visiting one now for a reason like this—even an unfamiliar, largely barren one—is _totally unreasonably super hot._

Frisk slides the door almost completely closed behind them, just enough to let in a little of the natural light from the mostly-unlit boardroom, and very casually begins to unbutton their suit jacket.

Your cock throbs helpfully against your belly, reminding you that you could be letting it hang out right now instead of just ogling. So you grip the sides of your robe and pull it up and over your head as quickly as you can without tearing the fabric or getting your face caught in it. It takes a little less than a minute of awkward wriggling, and your mane is just one big staticky poof when you’re done, but Frisk’s seen you in way more awkward positions than this. Your hobbies kinda involve Frisk seeing you in lots of awkward positions anyway. There’s no need to get self-conscious now. You dump the robe unceremoniously onto the floor and bend to pull your boxers down too, waiting for them to puddle around your feet rather than risking falling over to take them off one leg at a time.

The relief when your cock is allowed to spring free is so immediate you could almost come right now if you just had a little more stimulation.

Frisk, when you straighten up, is shrugging out of their blouse, making a big show of it; they leave it a little more delicately atop their suit jacket, next to the shoes they must have slipped off while you were busy. The creamy light golden fawn color of their skin is darker here in the shadows and rosy with arousal: Big round breasts rising up out of the cups of their frilly bra, soft upper arms, softer middle puffed a little where the hem of the skirt they have yet to take off compresses their fat.

Now that they know your attention’s fully on them, they smile slow and knowing and unzip the skirt, turning around to present their back to you as they slide it down.

Frisk bought these tights, you are sure, for the sole purpose of driving you and Chara insane. Worn with shoes and a skirt or shorts they just look like ubiquitous white tights, but underneath other concealing clothes the toes fade into delicate pink gradients, there’s a leaf on the sole of the left foot—and at the base of the legs, the white turns into the crisscrossed diamond pattern of packing for soft fruits.

The upper part of the tights is patterned after a ripe pink peach, its seam aligned perfectly between the generous cheeks of Frisk’s ass.

You _knew_ what you were going to see when they finished their striptease, you’ve _seen_ them wear these things before, but hot precome leaks from the tip of your eager cock even as a long moan escapes from your throat without you quite meaning it to. Frisk plants their hands on the closet wall, leaned over just slightly, and raises their hips at you to present their ass and, under the tights and the outline of their panties beneath it, their pussy. The crotch of the tights are damp, and it’s hard to tell from this angle but you can sort of see their clit raising a shallow tent against the gauzy fabric.

Chara’s the one who literally drenches their underwear in precome as soon as they start to get aroused, not Frisk, so you can only guess at just how long Frisk must have been hiding how horny they were to get in this state.

You’re already panting. You half expect your breath to steam. Frisk turns their head a little to look coyly at you over their shoulder, and you raise your hands a little, wanting to reach, afraid to. “Can I,” is all you manage to babble.

 _“Yes,”_ Frisk breathes, smiling and soft.

You reach out and grab their ass in both hands, careful not to touch the delicate fabric directly with your claws, cupping the cheeks in your palms. Frisk huffs and presses up into your hands, rising up tense and shuddery on tiptoes in a way that makes your cock just _ache_ for their pussy. You squeeze gently, rubbing in circular motions, concentrating on really feeling the bunch and the give of their plush human flesh. Frisk breathes out again, sharp and hard, and pushes their behind into your hands harder.

Slowly as you can manage, you sink down to squat on your haunches; this puts your face about on level with Frisk’s butt. You keep kneading just to watch them squirm, their big soft thighs trembling, their spine tensing and arching and dipping as they thrust back into your hands for more stimulation. They’re panting in rough shallow huffs but your own breathing almost drowns out the sound, harsh and desperate.

You grab as hard as you dare, pulling as if to spread Frisk’s ass open, and you lean in and lick one long stripe up their damp cloth-covered crotch. They jerk a little under your touch and make a soft insistent hum, so you lick them again: Their pussy’s warm even through tights and panties. Skimming your hands around to grasp their hips, you lick and nibble lightly along their ass, up the curves of the printed peach. Frisk exhales hard, and you hear them mouth something that you think is your name.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna take these off now if that’s okay,” you tell them. Frisk grunts in assent and presses harder into your hands, presenting their own splayed-out ass to you more insistently yet. You swallow, gently get your thumbs at the top of their tights, and skim your hands down, peeling tights and panties down their hips and thighs to hang loosely around their ankles.

Their pussy is soaked and swollen with arousal, the outer lips flushed deep red and the inner lips shiny and nearly purple. Their clit’s dowsing in the air like your cock, the mouth of their vulva is twitching lightly, and you don’t even stop to think: You grab Frisk’s ass again, they shift to spread their thighs for you, and you lean in to lick them.

Frisk whimpers just a little, and you whine too because they’re almost _scalding._ Their inner thighs and their pubes are sweat-salty but their pussy itself is shockingly sweet under your tongue. You remember them drinking fruit juice at the brunch even before you have the opportunity to be confused, and you moan into them again, part their folds with your tongue, open your mouth wider to sink your tongue inside them. Your teeth graze the flesh of their ass, and they wriggle a little to take you deeper, let you run your tongue over the uneven texture of their walls. They’re pliant, open, heartbeat thrumming against your mouth. You pull your face away, and Frisk whines a little again when your tongue slips out of them.

“I want your cock,” they say between breaths. “I want you in me, I want you to fuck me hard.”

“Okay,” you manage. The taste of them’s still thick on your tongue, even when you swallow. You brace yourself on their hips to stand, digging your claws in just enough to leave white marks without breaking the skin; Frisk shifts to lean one whole forearm and their forehead too up against the wall, and reaches down with their other hand to spread their folds for you. The line of their back is shuddery with what you know is anticipation. You lift one hand off their ass to steady the base of your own shaft, very carefully do not ejaculate from the heat of your own pads, and press the tip up into the mouth of their pussy.

You wait there, spreading your toes and gripping the floor with your claws, for what feels like an eternity of standing on the edge of something getting ready to dive—and then you thrust in. Frisk makes another soft sound and wraps around you, hot and slippery and welcoming.

“More,” they say, barely audible under the rasp of your breath, and you sob and plant your forehead against the wall and you grab their hips and fuck into them with such vigor your cock nearly slips right out when you pull back.

They’re perfect, _perfect,_ all warm and wet and so tight it sends shockwaves all up through the base of your spine, their pussy contracting and pulling you in so that each thrust aches deliciously. Your balls push against the base of your sheath when they swing, those few inches at the base of your shaft that you can never fit inside either of your partners because you’re just too big and they’re too small, and the stimulation is _destroying_ you. Frisk’s ass pushes against your belly every time you bury yourself in them, and you’re _literally_ seeing stars, sparks crossing the tiny capillaries in your eyes. You’re panting gape-mouthed, probably drooling, eyes watering, howling wordless and sloppy.

And they—they said to fuck them hard but you didn’t _mean_ to be this rough, it’s just that their expression below you is so blissful, and their neat soft little pussy matches you thrust for thrust, opening for you tenderly and drenching you in more pleasure than you think you can really stand.

Frisk comes beneath you, squeezing their eyes shut, lips parting; if they make any sound you can’t hear it over your own shouts of their name and the obscene slick noises of your cock pumping into them. Their pussy narrows and—and _pulses,_ you can feel it clearly at this angle, squeezing your cock in long strokes, covetous and loving.

They go slack and trembly beneath you but they shake their head when you make to try to slow down: “No,” they croak, _“more,”_ and you’re so close anyway. Their come is so thick you could be drowning, their walls so slippery with it that they feel almost perfectly smooth.

“Frisk,” you’re wailing, “Frisk, you’re so—” and you can hardly keep track of your own babbling, how good their pussy feels, how cute they are, how much you love them. Your voice cracks, your balls cramp; you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut and _push,_ burying yourself as deep as you can, pouring your come into their waiting womb, their hips greedily upturned for you, yours still jostling them weakly, unwilling to stop thrusting until you’re too soft to stay inside them properly.

Neither of you can really stay upright. Your knees sort of buckle and Frisk goes sort of limp, and you just sink down to the floor like that: You butt-naked and them with their tights and panties still hanging off their ankles, your half-flaccid cock glittering with their fluids and their pussy messy with your come.

They squirm in your arms ‘til they’re facing you and grab your face in both hands and pull you down to press endless light kisses to your muzzle, to push their thick little human tongue into your mouth to taste your long thin one, and you just so happen to have a hand over their breast anyway so you squeeze and knead it, giddy and breathless.

“Again,” Frisk moans into your mouth. “Again, again, fuck me again, come in me more, I wanna—wanna come again.”

You’d protest but your halfie’s getting to be less and less of a halfie by the moment. You’re going to blame Frisk’s cheeky, cheeky tights for this, and also Chara a little because your brain wouldn’t be half this wired towards puns without them.

“Time,” you say, and then suck and nibble the soft meaty part of Frisk’s shoulder anyway because you’re a weak man. The part of you that listens to Chara too often suggests that you can’t be blamed for being so horny because you literally have horns growing out of your head. You try to shush that part of you. It’s more charming and a lot funnier when Chara does it.

Frisk grunts and peels one arm away from you to grope in the pile of their clothes, coming back with their phone. They don’t scan their fingerprints to undo the lock screen, so it just shows the time: You’ve barely used up half an hour of your two-hour break. Plenty of leeway for another round.

“But I think,” they murmur, “you might want to be a little quieter if you don’t want someone to find us. Or I’ll have to tie your mouth shut.”

The last bit’s said light and jokey, but your cock thumps between you, fully upright again. You feel like you’ve just been electrified, and you stare at them wide-eyed.

“I, uh,” you say. “If we could—I’d maybe sort of like that, I think? If you’re okay with it I mean, since I don’t—don’t know if I can really help being loud actually.”

Frisk leans back to consider you. Their pupils are still huge with lust, making their pale eyes look dark.

“We could do that,” they say. “Don’t think it will be too secure since the longest thing I have for a restraint is my tie. You can pull it off if it’s hard to breathe or if it’s painful or if you need to say something and can’t sign, just—don’t rip it, I like this tie.”

“Deal,” you reply so quickly you nearly bite your tongue. Frisk giggles.

They have you sit this time, leaned back with your weight supported on your arms and your knees splayed wide open to give them full access to your cock and your balls. It’s only fair, you think; much as you both enjoy you fucking them from behind, they don’t have much room to move in positions like that, and they deserve a turn.

Then they retrieve their tie. They hold it up at you mock-ostentatiously, smiling, and you grin back. “Stop me if this is too tight,” they say, and they scoot up close to you and hesitate for a moment with a stern face, eyes tracking back and forth. Each second is agonizing, precome starting to bead at the head of your cock from sheer anticipation, and you whine a little when at last Frisk loops their tie over your muzzle.

The pressure is odd but not unpleasant; they wrap the tie around you twice, pulling securely and looking carefully at your face all the while as if to gauge your comfort level. They poke one pinky under the restraint like they do when tying up your wrists, checking to make sure your circulation won’t get cut off, and then knot the ends of the tie almost even with the right corner of your mouth. The knot’s thick, but a generous amount of the tie is left to dangle.

You’re just self-conscious enough to be aware that this probably looks really goofy from Frisk’s perspective, but your dick is _thrilled_ with the situation, thumping and twitching eagerly, fresh precome starting to trail slickly down your shaft to mingle with the extant wetness of your sex. Frisk regards this warmly, smiling soft, and asks _You ready?_ to which you nod enthusiastically.

They rise up over you, push their glasses up on their nose, tongue poking out a little in concentration; legs spread wide to straddle your waist, they reach down with their left hand to grip the base of your cock (you whine) and their right to hold their pussy open, fingers rushing and eager over their erect clit. At this angle you’ve got a perfect view of the tip of your cock lining up with the wet mouth of their vagina, dipping inside just a little (you whine again, louder); Frisk moves their right hand to your shoulder to balance themself, the lips of their vulva wrap silken around the head of your cock, and they thrust down onto you in one smooth eager stroke. Seeing the length of you swallowed up inside them as the slick sticky warmth of them welcomes you home—that’s _something,_ it always is, and between that and the pressure around your muzzle you moan and your cock leaks, more than the usual little trickle of precome but still nowhere near a full ejaculation. You let it.

The head of your cock presses hard against the depths of them, lined up tight with the door to their womb, and their fluids—a sticky mingled mess of precome and come—seep down the sad forlorn base of you, the inches that won’t fit.

“Wish I could take all of you,” Frisk whispers, “right down to the root—” and the greed in their voice is so raw you want to scream, but the knot of their tie is too tight for you to get your mouth open wide enough so it just comes out as a slushy moan. Your cock is twitching insistently inside them, doing its valiant best; they’re always a little tighter when they’re riding you, something to do with the stomach muscles the position uses. It’d be almost uncomfortable if they weren’t so slippery-wet inside already, but they are, and _god_ you want to empty your balls in them _right now._

Frisk smiles and starts to rock, the motions of their hips getting more and more exaggerated until they’re humping you just about as vigorously as they can, rising almost all the way off you and then slamming all their weight down, pushing the tip of you up against their cervix with each piston of their hips. It feels _amazing._ You were surprised years ago when Frisk discovered how much they enjoy hammering (and also being hammered by) you just like this, because Chara finds the same thing to be a little too painful to appreciate. But then Frisk likes rough sex more than Chara does to begin with, and you guess these things vary from person to person.

With your voice muffled behind your tied-shut jaws, you can hear things that usually you don’t get to appreciate: When Frisk thrusts down on you it makes loud squelching noises, wet and _way_ overexaggerated, and it ought to be laughable or so embarrassing that your dick should just deflate and curl in on itself but it’s not.

You can _hear_ just how slick they are and how much precome is built up inside them and how much you came in them earlier every time they fuck down onto you, all that fluid that’s saving your cock from getting chafed to heck and back or just straight-up _crushed_ in their voracious pussy. They’ve got your penis wrapped up in a six-inch-long tunnel of silken flesh and muscle, laving and stroking the most vulnerable part of your anatomy in the strongest part of theirs, and your brain’s scrambling for half-remembered similes from the bodice rippers you jacked off to ten years ago, unable to keep up with the pleasure.

Frisk’s breath is rushing out in eager little huffs and their hands are practically claws on your shoulders, all bright pressure and heat, but aside from their panting they’re silent. They don’t make that much noise during sex, just the occasional hum or whimper or moan when you or Chara get them in a sensitive spot or when they’re coming, maybe a cry or two if it’s a really big one. You’re the noisy one among the three of you: Chara’s squeaky, you have to get them off a couple times before they cut loose and get loud. Frisk’s quiet. Now your reflexive sobbing and begging’s reduced to garbled moans and whines, it’s easier to appreciate the changes in their breathing, the little hitches that match the contractions of their pussy and the wavering of their walls, the rhythms their clit twitches to.

They squeeze their eyes closed and their lips form the shape of your name, and then they’re gasping as they clench down on you, coming before you this time too. You choke a little: They’re clamped down so _tight,_ walls of their pussy rippling, and their hips start to slow. You’re sure for a deliciously horrible moment that inertia won’t keep them going long enough and they’re just going to sit on your aching cock without giving you the chance to come, but Frisk grunts and thrusts with visible effort—

—and you squeeze your eyes shut too and try to force a full-throated howl through your closed jaws as your dick thumps and you pour out into them a second time, the start of your orgasm only _just_ overlapping the end of theirs. Spit is bubbling through your lips on either side of the makeshift muzzle, and your ears must’ve popped, because they’re ringing faintly. Frisk eases off you slowly, your softening cock slipping out of them with one last wet noise, and you open your eyes again with an effort to see them sit and then sprawl out on their back on the floor, legs still spread and bent in a sloppy _m_ shape.

It is hard to catch your breath through your nose, but you’re too lazy to pull Frisk’s tie off your muzzle, so you guess you’ll just have to deal with it. Your arms are stiff from supporting your weight for so long, and when you lift your hands from the floor your palms are tingling.

Frisk is fidgeting where they lay, you realize at length, hips jerking shallowly upwards seeking stimulation that’s not there. Their breathing’s still shallow and clipped, their eyes still dark with lust.

“More,” they say out loud when they notice your eyes are on them. “More, I want more.” And they switch to signing here, probably saving their ability to talk for later, for when you stop playing absurdly sexy hide-and-seek and have to go be responsible grownups again: _We still have time, I want to come more, I want you to come inside me ‘til I’m full._

You make to open your mouth to answer out of habit, and Frisk’s tie somehow manages to catch you by surprise even though it’s obscuring your vision a little on one side. You switch to sign. _I think I only have one more round in me for right now,_ you warn, _and I’m going to need help actually getting it up again in time to finish and still be able to clean up and get to eat. But yeah, I’m okay with that._

And you were prepared for this outcome from the beginning, from Frisk planning a way for you to have as much of your two-hour break as possible for sex. Greed has defined Frisk for as long as you’ve known them—greed for a happier ending back in the underground, for monsters to have better rights and relations with humans in current politics, for love and affection in their relationships with friends and family, for… well, for sexual gratification and closeness with you and Chara. There was basically no way that this wasn’t going to turn into a mini marathon.

Besides, you’ve done scenes with Frisk that have lasted way longer and been a lot more demanding than this. And also, their endless well of thirst is honestly really hot.

Frisk makes a soft noise that’s maybe acquiescence, maybe impatience, maybe both. They roll some, slide one leg out and push themself something like upright, scooting over to snuggle into your side. They’re still breathing hard and rapid. Now that you’re not hard you can actually take in the delicate porcelain-teacup patterns of flowers on the thin fabric of their bra, the translucent lace along the edges, their nipples visibly stiff even hidden under the cups. You were busy with other things at the time, but you’re pretty sure the panties Frisk had on under the peach butt tights matched.

They’ve got more matching sets of underwear than Chara does, and they make more of an effort to wear the matching sets together too, but Frisk usually wears more colorful lingerie than this, or bigger and bolder patterns that Chara likens to antique wallpaper. These lacy ones are either new or Frisk has rarely ever had them on before. They have really put a _boggling_ amount of effort into today’s events. Your dick doesn’t quite _rally,_ the end of the overstimulation bit of the refractory period still not meaning that you’re ready to leap back into the fray Right Now Immediately, but—Frisk worked hard for this. You want to give them a good time.

So you lean down to nuzzle the crown of their head. They tilt their chin up to look you in the face, questing, hungry. “Ready?” they say, soft, and you nod.

Frisk guides you to open your thighs wider, and with gentle fingertips they stroke the seams of your sheath instead of touching your penis directly. Your pulse, which had just started to slow down, skitters into a gallop again. Frisk smiles without looking up and licks their own fingertips very showily before starting to trace little lines across your dick. You can feel your blood beating there just under their touch, starting to perk up a little more, and Frisk ducks their head further to lick it gently and then take it into their mouth.

You throw your head back and just barely avoid kicking them out of reflex, blowing all your breath out of your nostrils: It’s _almost_ too much too soon, unbearable. When your cock’s erect it’s much too big to fit into a human’s mouth, so the only time your partners can suck you off is occasions like this one, where you’re tired out from too many orgasms too close together and need to be nursed tenderly into getting it back up.

Frisk pushes your sheath open and down, baring your cock to its root, leaning in so the tip of their nose almost grazes the sensitive inside of your sheath. They’ve got their lips folded politely so that their teeth don’t touch you directly, and they stay there and suckle, tongue fluttering along the underside of the shaft. They’re only using one hand on you—the other, you note as you try to look at them instead of the closet ceiling, is tucked between their thighs to work their clit, movements of their fingers frantic.

Bit by aching bit you start to harden, and Frisk removes their fingers from your sheath, propping themself up against your thigh, slowly raising their head. They swirl their tongue in nonsense patterns at the base of your head, gently bobbing to fuck their mouth on your cock as it stiffens and expands. They release you completely before you’re hard enough to hurt them, instead licking burning stripes up the shaft and pressing sloppy rings of kisses around the rim of the head. They shudder and whine just once, pausing, and then the hand they were using to masturbate with starts tracing circles around the root of you. Their fingertips are wet with their come and, probably, yours too.

You pat at their thigh to get their attention, awkward, and they startle a little, blinking up at you. It’s—it’s so _weird_ borrowing all Frisk’s usual cues to get you to look at them so you can communicate, but it’s not a _bad_ weird, more one that makes your heart feel full and sappy. Your cock twitches hopefully against their hand. _I’m ready to keep going,_ you tell them, and they grin at you and nod.

Where you would’ve fumbled to think of a position, Frisk rolls onto their back, you guess too needy to bother with anything more complex. You crouch over top of them, balanced awkwardly on forearms and knees and paws—your arms are too long and your legs are the wrong shape to really do hands-and-knees like a human, but your cock hangs heavy and eager and dripping and Frisk holds themself open, arching up to you to help guide you in.

They clench immediately around you as you penetrate them, clinging to you with arms and legs, lips parting around a rare full-throated moan. You reach down and lift their hips up, one hand spread wide to balance them, fingers tight around the plush soft plentiful flesh of their ass, and they’re still coming as you start to pump into them. The fluids of their fourth orgasm and two of yours run in beads down their ass and over their thighs, clumping in your fur, and they squeeze you and squeeze you until you feel sure for a moment that you’re going to break, that you would welcome it.

Frisk hooks their arms up and around your neck, fingers grasping at your fur, buries their face in your ruff. Their legs are quivering as they hug your waist. They whine and murmur _don’t stop_ but you don’t think you could anyway, pulling them up to meet you as your hips churn, cock pistoning rapidly into them. Their heartbeat’s like thunder in the walls of their pussy, commanding, _demanding,_ and you squeeze their ass harder and plunge into them with enough speed and force that your own legs start to tremble too.

You’re not going to last, you realize distantly, numbly; from the start you weren’t going to last, you and Frisk both reduced to clinging to each other fucking on the floor with barely any finesse. Frisk lets out faint little whimpers as they lift their hips up to meet your messy thrusts, and their walls cling every time you pull back as if to refuse to let you go.

Your balls cramp and cramp and cramp until you can’t hold back anymore, and some hideous cry works its way from your chest past your clenched teeth, and colored spots swirl across your eyes and you come in torrents. Frisk cries out once and then they’re coming too, pussy tight and pulling you in, the undulations of their walls matching the rhythm of your cock’s thumping, milking the come out of you in hard spurts that seem to reach from deep in your belly. They’re still going weakly even as you empty out, clutching greedily, and you keep stuffing your softening cock into them until they go slack beneath you.

You just crouch atop them for a few moments, shuddering, before you can even so much as pull Frisk’s tie down the length of your muzzle and off. It takes you about another minute’s worth of gasping to garner the energy to lurch sideways and give Frisk room to move.

They don’t move. They just keep lying flat with their chest heaving, legs still parted, face blissful and replete. They seem to have gotten their wish, too; the lips and mouth of their vulva are messy with your come and dripping slowly. If you weren’t so exhausted the sight would have you hard again in a heartbeat—Frisk would probably be totally fine with continuing, too.

But you are exhausted, so you just stretch out on your side next to them. Clothes are something you can worry about when you aren’t coasting on oxytocin, anyway; you close your eyes and stretch out your feet.

A rustle catches your attention, and probably saves you from just falling asleep right here: You open your eyes to see that Frisk has picked up their phone and is holding it at arm’s length above them, legs splayed wide to show off your come in them. They’re actually making a peace sign with their free hand, the tip of their tongue poked out between their smiling lips in an expression you really can only think of as _cheeky._

“What,” is all you manage as Frisk snaps their postcoital selfie, brazen as day. They don’t answer you right away, scrutinizing the resulting photo for a few seconds before apparently judging it satisfactory.

“For Chara,” they say, as though this is obvious.

“You really _are_ evil,” you tell them, awed after all, and this sends them into a fit of giggles.

 

 

(You make it to the break buffet with more than enough time to eat and drink and replenish yourselves, and no one even wonders where you and Frisk were for the past eighty minutes or remarks on the little damp spots on Frisk’s tie.)

 

 

Later that night in your hotel suite, Frisk shows you the respectable come stain along the crotch of both their panties and their tights. None of it seems to have gotten on the suit itself, a small mercy, but there’s really only so much fingertips and wet wipes can do after your partner’s bust a nut in you three times in quick succession. They impart this to you with a look of incredible smugness.

For your part, you’re wincing over the stains. “Oh jeez,” you say, cringing a little. “Today was really _really_ good, but I’m still sorry about your underwear.”

Frisk shrugs. _It’ll wash out,_ they say, unconcerned. _Besides, I have a pair of these tights for each day of the week._

You boggle at them for what feels like several minutes. “How… how many pairs did you _bring?”_

Frisk smiles sweetly at you.

Your phone buzzes from the bedside table just then, and you pick it up to see that Chara has replied to your group chat for the first time since Frisk sent the selfies hours ago. Their message is just a simple _=)_ emote. They’ve attached a video file called simply _hey_buddy._

You exchange looks with Frisk, and open it.

The video is a five-minute-long recording of Chara masturbating. It is shot from three separate angles. They would rather die than let anyone except you or Frisk see their naked body, you know, so this means that they must have taken and edited this footage by themself. It could have taken up to hours to put together, if they’d had to do any retakes; though the audio is tinny, especially through your phone speakers, you can clearly hear them murmuring your name, then Frisk’s as they stroke themself to shuddering climax.

Frisk is already typing on their own phone: _chara holy shit_

 _Did you really, truly think that you could taunt me so cruelly and not expect retribution?_ Chara replies. _Do you think you are above consequences?_

 _im completely going to put this on repeat to watch while asriel fucks me 2nite,_ Frisk shoots back, tacking on a bunch of emojis blowing kisses.

 _How about you come home and fuck me instead,_ Chara replies rapidly, following this up with a bunch of hand emojis making pointing fingers and ok signs. Frisk snorts. You have no idea how they’re able to type like this; it feels like all the blood in your body has drained to your crotch, leaving the rest of you responding in slow motion.

 _its a date!!!!!!!!_ Frisk types back. _we miss u so much :( also i think ur sexy vid just broke asriel lol_

“I’m _not_ broken,” you say out loud, and then type it laboriously. _I’m not broken, im just langushging in a puddl of lust??/_

It has a bunch of typoes, which naturally you only notice once you’ve hit send. Why does every single piece of human technology have to have a keyboard that’s way too small for your hands.

 _You’re welcome,_ Chara replies after a brief pause. Beside you, Frisk is giggling into their hands. _Do please come home soon._

 _as soon as we can,_ Frisk types back, and you just send a bunch of hearts before putting your phone back down.

“You do realize that you’ve doomed us both,” you tell them, and Frisk just looks at you, the very picture of innocence. “We’re not gonna win this game of Sexy Chicken.”

 _It’s not MY fault I have a very delicious ass that Chara deserves to appreciate too,_ Frisk says. The virtuous impression is somewhat spoiled by the fact that they’re very obviously trying not to burst out laughing.

“I’ll give _you_ delicious ass,” you retort, lightly reaching out to tug Frisk over to where you sit on the bed. “Get over here, Mx Peachy Cheeks.”

They’re still laughing when you lift them into your lap.

**Author's Note:**

> frisk's tights in this fic are an actual real article of clothing that actually exists irl. they're made by a group called "ekoD Works" if you want to google them and see what they look like. the same dudes also make space ones based on the same concept.


End file.
